Burning Bridges
by Reinbeauchaser
Summary: "I'm certain that I've burned the longest bridge in the history of human relationships.  Yet, if I could, I would rebuild that bridge with every fiber of my being!" After reading her grandmother's journal, a young woman searches for the truth.
1. Chapter 1

_**Burning Bridges**_

By reinbeauchaser

**Author's Notes:** For those who have already read the first chapter, I changed the title, made some minor corrections and enhancements, but nothing that strays from its original format. The next update will not have reference to the original title.

For those reading this for the first time, this is a prologue to a much larger story, one that I have been working on for some months, now. It can stand alone, but – as they say - there is more to the tale.

Originally, this was supposed to be a one-shot, but – as oftentimes happens – that one shot took on a life of its own. My muses are fickle things these days. :0)

I will not promise quick updates, either, but I WILL update. I have enough written already to supply a submission every week for about a month (approximately 15,000 words so far), so if I keep adding to this, you, the reader, should not have to wait around too much for subsequent chapters. That's my plan, anyway, writer's block notwithstanding. :0)

Anyway, enjoy and let me know what you think!

**Prologue:**

"_The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there."_

author unknown

_After what I've written so far, I'm not so certain anymore if this is a good idea. I'm thinking that maybe I should just burn the whole thing, all three-hundred and fifty-seven pages. It _has_ been cathartic in a way, to get it all down and in print, but my family thinks my tales are just imaginary. They could rightly use journal as an excuse to commit me to that old folk's home. _

_Yet, nothing can be further from the truth. It really happened, all of it, but maybe with putting it into print and giving it permanence, I am as senile as I've heard some members of my family whisper from time to time. They might be right, but I am also too stubborn to care. _

_They might also toss my book away, but I have faith that my granddaughter will hold on to it. After all, it represents a tough time in her life when she was very sick. Yes, my stories distracted my namesake quite well and it's because of her that I write. So, my dear granddaughter, in case you read this journal, it is my ode to you._

_Still, the act of chronicling my experiences has made me wonder: Am I doing the right thing? There are so many ways that this could go wrong and on so many levels. At my age, though, if I am remiss with sharing about them, I may not have a second chance. _

_Of course, I wonder if any of them are still alive. What if they're all gone and some excavation project discovers their remains? What would people think? Would they label them as monsters? Would they display their bones in a museum? No, I couldn't let that happen. I would want the world to know, then, just how special they are; not just to me, but to the city in general. I've lost count with how many would-be victims they rescued from muggers, kidnappers, and rapists. The city needs to know who it was who hand-delivered trussed up wanted criminals to the authorities, not to mention why orphanages and other charitable organizations found bags of money - most of which was drug-related - dropped off in their collection boxes. _

_There are so many good things that my friends did, it would take as many pages as what I've written so far to list them all. I want to make sure that if they are discovered, there is an account of their exploits. It would pain me if they just faded away and disappeared into some anthropologist's backroom, or ended up in some weird and whacky museum. My friends deserve medals and statues. They are heroes, the reptilian equivalent to Superman, Batman, and Spiderman all rolled up into four unique and brave individuals. Despite their shadowy life of living unobserved from the general population, I feel they deserve some recognition, even if it is post mortem. _

_Mostly, though, I want my granddaughter to understand and appreciate the full depth of my friendship with these special people._

_Yet, as I'm nearing the end of this marathon of a journal, second-guessing myself surprises me. I mean, I promised them that I would never share their secret with anyone. And I haven't, at least not until now - my granddaughter and family notwithstanding of course. They think I'm nuts, though, so they don't count. _

_Nevertheless, I feel driven, as if my next breath – or stroke against the keyboard – might be my last. After all, I am eighty-two years old - which is young in my opinion, but nonetheless geriatric by everyone else's. Still, who knows how much time I have left? I should be spending it with family and not with writing my journal. I've spent so much time on it, though, I'm sure my daughter is planning to have me committed. But, I am driven; I have to get it all down. I have to have some account about what happened so many years ago. I'm not the same woman I was back then. Being as old as I am gives me a clearer view of things. If only I knew then what I know now, maybe I wouldn't have made such a drastic decision. _

_Yes, a part of me is still mad at them; another larger part pines to forgive them face to face – and ask for forgiveness in return. I can't imagine how they must have felt back when…IT all happened. Goodness, despite HOW he died and how unnecessary it was, I still love the guys. I wish I could take back the words I had said to them, take back the vow I made. I truly regret my very angry and resentful decision, one that clearly told them to stay away and never contact me again. How stupid was that, anyway? _

_Yes, April, go ahead and burn those bridges. Goodness, what was I thinking? _

_Honestly? I was thinking that I had just become a widow, with a baby on the way who would never know their father. I had never felt such grief before, not even when my own dad passed away. Then again, I shouldn't have been so surprised by the outcome; Casey lived dangerously. I guess I was in denial about that and the reality of it finally woke me up. _

_Mostly, though, I worried that my child would end up orphaned. I knew that as long as I kept close to my friends, I would always be in the line of fire. I would always be in danger. When it finally hit me that my baby would be, too, that was my epiphany. _

_After Casey's burial and the one run-in with that lone Foot soldier (who promised revenge), I had to make that hard choice to break ties, just to avoid attracting the wrong kind of crowd. I seemed to be very good at doing that. Why that soldier didn't kill me then, I don't know, but I suspect he had at least some honor in not dispatching a very pregnant woman. I guess I should thank him, though in my heart I could only blame him for what happened afterwards._

_I knew that leaving would hurt my friends, but I had to do it, if not for me, or my child, then certainly for them. With us out of the way, it meant their enemy would not have an advantage. Frankly, they could kidnap me, or my baby - or both of us, and take us hostage. My friends would surely try to rescue us, too. That's why I had to move, why I had to get away and burn my bridges - to protect them, while also protecting my baby and me._

_To get out of town unseen by the Foot, I used all of the diversionary tactics my friends had taught me. Buses, trains, and taxis never ask for ID, only enough money to pay the fare. I ran opposite from where I wanted to end up, doubling back by thumbing a ride. Of course, I made sure that the pick-up driver was a woman. With my pregnancy and luggage, my story of fleeing an abusive husband worked beautifully. _

_In any event, after two days of travel I finally made it to the family farm._

_Moving into the old place helped my grief and my anger somewhat, but it also made things worse. It reminded me of the good times when we were all together as one happy, though very unique, family. I did my share of crying those first few weeks, too. _

_Casey's old truck still worked, so at least I had transportation to get to the store – and a month after moving in, I drove myself to the hospital when I went into labor. That was a fun ride. NOT! _

_Before I went into labor, I had dyed my hair the first chance I had. Red hair stands out far too easily. I was sure that the Foot would look at various hospital records and had the means to find anyone with such notable characteristics as my hair color. _

_When asked about family, I told them I was an only child and my parents had died years ago. When asked about the father of my baby, I had to lie. I told the admittance receptionist at the hospital that I didn't know where he was. He had disappeared soon after I told him I was pregnant. I had to bite my tongue when the woman mumbled 'dead beat father' under her breath. Casey was anything but. He was looking forward to becoming a daddy. _

_When they put me in the birthing room, they kept someone with me at all times. I so wanted to cry, but I didn't want to have someone preening over me, either. So, I shoved it down and tried to focus on my labor pains._

_Labor was hard, but it was made worse for me emotionally. When I finally popped my daughter out and they presented her to me, I finally cried. No one questioned me, either. Many women cry when they see their firstborn child. I was grateful for the normalcy of my outburst. _

_Two days later I went home with Kathleen bundled tightly into her carrier. No suspicious shadows followed me, no cars trailed my truck. I even pulled off the road at one point where it snaked through the forested countryside. I hid myself, the baby, and the truck in among the thick brush, just in case I did have someone tailing me. I waited a good two hours. Fortunately, my daughter slept soundly. Once convinced I was free and clear, I made it back to the farm without a hitch. Once there, for the first time in many years, I began to relax._

_Every day was a blessing. It was so peaceful, so carefree. Kathleen reminded me how precious life was, how fragile it can be. Yes, I know firsthand about death, but new life brings it all into razor sharp focus. _

_Then, a month after Kathleen's birth, I had a brief glimpse at sundown of something amid the trees out back. One hundred acres separated that part of the yard and my nearest neighbor. Quite honestly, the presence frightened me. If I had to scream for help, who would hear me? I was all alone with a newborn baby. How could I keep her safe if the Foot had found me? I thought of taking Casey's truck and running again, but if it was indeed my enemy, then they would have already compromised it, maybe rig it with a bomb that would blow up the moment I started the engine. _

_I couldn't take that chance._

_So, I kept my head down and waited. I kept Kathleen fed, diapered, and entertained, just so she wouldn't squawk too much. Fortunately, she was a quiet baby. Splinter would have been proud. It helped that I had just stocked up a good supply of food, too, and had plenty of diapers, so I didn't have a need to leave the farm. With good locks on the doors, I knew it would take more than a simple kick to break in. Several years ago, when we remodeled the farmhouse, Casey and I had replaced all of the exterior exits with steel-re-enforced doors, and all of the windows with nearly unbreakable, triple-paned, polycarbonate glass. It was just a precaution, really, since we never had any kind of assault there, and it helped to insulate the house, too, but we lived uncertain lives, where the next battle could come to our rural farm._

_In any event, I felt much safer there than I would have if we hadn't made all of the improvements._

_After a month went by and nothing happened, I relaxed a little. I checked the truck and found it unmolested, yet I still 'felt' someone watching the house every morning. After six months went by, I knew it couldn't be anyone from the Foot, the Foot didn't wait that long to attack. They might scout a place for a week or two, or even a month, but after six? They would be long overdue for a visit. _

_Maybe they had changed their mind, but I doubt that._

_It didn't take much reasoning, then, to figure out whom it might be. I decided that it had to be one of the guys, probably checking up on me, making sure that I'm all right. Most likely, it was Raph or Donnie. _

_Maybe they just wanted to see what Casey's kid looked like. That wouldn't surprise me._

_Well, she looked like him, no auburn-headed girl to represent me. Just as well, really, all things considered. Her dark locks and square jaw-line certified her as her father's daughter in a huge way. Birth records would say nothing about having the gene for red hair. I had to wait for a granddaughter to see that. _

_Anyway, I realized that my friends would not cease in their protection of me. I had to appreciate their perseverance. Of course, considering how persistent their enemy was, I wondered if they did have to intervene at times. How many battles took place beyond my line of sight and hearing? Ninja fight silently, they make very little noise...except for Mike, but only if he and his opponents are out of earshot of the everyday person and especially if he's winning._

_Just the same, though, I was tired of the snooping. I didn't want to sell the farm, but I felt it was the only way that I could permanently break ties. _

_I also needed the money to move. _

_I took a chance that someone from the Foot might be searching the 'net for any reference to Casey or April Jones, so, I made sure to keep the sale private and price the property cheap enough for a quick sale, and then get out of town Dodge. It worked._

_As it turned out, the people who bought the farm and all of its acreage also bought some of the neighboring farms. They ended up turning it all into a neighborhood of fifteen-hundred homes. I was kind of sad about that when I found out, but I realized it was better for the guys. It would act as a dead end in our friendship. It was better this way._

_After I moved to Philadelphia, it cemented that break. I knew they could track me if they really wanted to, but after I sold the farm, I think it finally penetrated their thick skulls that I was serious. I never felt someone watching me ever again._

_Of course, I made a regular habit of keeping my new hair color fresh, just so the obvious red never showed through. I seriously kept Clairol in the green. I thought about using a different color from time to time, but decided against it. Consistency creates normalcy and I was determined to fit in and not draw attention to myself._

_Yes, there were moments when I missed my friends. I can't deny that. Still, when my life became as normal as my neighbors' did, when my only worries were about potty-training Kathleen or when she started school and had to deal with homework deadlines, I realized then just how crazy a life I had led before Casey died. I don't know if Case would have appreciated my new way of living, he was certainly a very restless sort, but I sure did. _

_It's amazing when you are under duress all the time, how unnatural 'peace of mind' can feel. You're always wondering when the next 'shoe' will drop. But, that other shoe never dropped and I got used to it. I liked it!_

_As the years went by and as Kathleen grew up, got married, had children of her own, got divorced, when I began telling my granddaughter about my life as a young woman, the reality of what I had truly lost hit me like that proverbial ton of bricks. I had made a vow, though, and I was determined to keep it. _

_Yet, in hindsight, I missed my friends. I still do. Truth be told, I would want them to enjoy the kind of life that I _had_ enjoyed. I would want them to share in such things as watching my child grow up, to see the wonder of grandchildren, to reminisce about the 'good ol' days', even if there was some bittersweet to that good. _

_When my granddaughter came down sick with the flu – she apparently got a double dose of it, I shared my stories with her. The more I talked about my friends, the more I began to regret my decision from so long ago. _

_It's true what they say: the mouth is like a feather pillow opened up on a windy day. Like feathers, words fly out and drift along on the wind of time, out of reach. They are always irretrievable. Yet, I have found that what we do in response to them - no matter how long it takes - either justifies us or fills us with regret. I know that everyone has regrets; you can't really live life and not acquire a few. Nevertheless, of all that I have, none was worse than knowing that I had hurt the four people who cared about me the most – other than Casey, of course. They were people who would protect my child and me with their very lives. Yet, they cared so much that they stayed away when asked to. _

_There were many times when I wished they had ignored my request and made pests of themselves. They did, initially, which is why I moved. Still, I think that in giving me space, it was their way of appeasing my grief._

_It does make me wonder how they handled theirs._

_After my granddaughter got better, I thought that never talking about them again might help. Yet, watching her and her brother grow up and move on with their lives, as I grew older and realized my mortality, I knew I had to make sure that someone remembered them. _

_Another truth I've discovered: Regret will make you do things that you've sworn never to do. So I guess the moral to the story is, don't make vows and best not to swear! Yeah, that's a truth!_

_In any event, I know that the family thinks I'm nuts. So be it. I'm an old woman, for pity's sake, what do they expect? I'm allowed a little grace, I think, a little trip down that Yellow Brick Road. That doesn't mean that I'm ready for the old folk's home, though. They can categorize my ramblings as fiction if they want to, but I have a quest and a goal. I have to right my wrong. _

_Maybe one day...if my friends are still alive...they may even read this journal and know my change of heart; that is, if it ever finds its way to them..._

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **Don't own them, never have, never will. Sad, isn't it? As for 'when' the Turtles will make an appearance, who knows. I had a hard time categorizing this story. Wish the F.F. category section would allow for combinations, rather than offering just two choices. By all accounts, it could fall under the mystery genre, too.

I want to give a huge thank you to everyone who has so far read and reviewed. FanFiction rules prohibit listing reviewers, however, so I will refrain from doing so. You know who you are, though. :0) Still, suffice it to say, reviews keep me going. Solid critiques keep me on my toes, too, so feel free to offer helpful suggestions. I know the first-person, present-tense narrative is a tough one to pull off, so if I stray a bit from that format, let me know. Also, keep me honest with my OC's. I'm trying to write them as real as I can, while avoiding the dreaded Mary Sue-itis. :0)

Now, on with the story!

**BURNING BRIDGES**

by reinbeauchaser

**Chapter One – Yep, We're Lost**

"Seriously, do you realize how crazy this is?"

"Would you please keep it down?" I hush irritably, my warning hissed between clenched teeth. Gregs is starting to get on my nerves.

"I can't believe I let you talk me into joining you," my friend mutters, more softly this time.

Still, he's too loud for my comfort.

Before the echo of his ranting dissipates, Gregory adds to his complaint, undaunted by my many requests for him to be quiet, "I must be loony-toons," he rants and his voice filled with sarcasm with his next comment, "Maybe I AM desperate for some _insane_ adventure." Gregory snaps his figures, then, as if something finally made sense, "Of course, that _has_ to be it…I'm nuts! Completely – Certified -NUTS!"

"I'm serious, keep your voice DOWN!" I admonish and none to softly. I feel like a hypocrite, now.

My friend smiles at me, silently agreeing. He then asks, "So...why do we have to be so quiet, anyway? It's not as if anyone can hear us DOWN HERE." Gregs then appears to have an epiphany and he looks at me, smiling. His expression seems to say that he's discovered some unsavory secret of mine, "Ah, I know, maybe you're afraid some _weird-looking_ GHOST will jump out and go 'BOO!"

I know Gregs is just trying to be funny, since he doesn't believe a word about my grandma's journal. He thinks it's just a bunch of stories, written by a woman in the throes of senility. Grams was anything but. She had always been lucid and of sound mind, right up until the end - right up until her last stroke of the keyboard when writing her journal, in fact.

"Yeeeah, it's something like that. My grandma told me stories..." I whisper, but my words trail off as I try not to think about ghosts. It's mighty hard to do, too, especially when you're standing in a lightless tunnel, twenty feet below street level, and all you have is a flashlight to battle the overwhelming darkness. Seriously, it's so dark down here our flashlights barely cut through it. I'd have better chance at cutting concrete with a butter knife than…

"Yeah, yeah, I know, I know," Gregs interrupts and my thoughts dissipate like his echoing voice, "but she was also batty as a fruitcake, too." Gregory is again talking too loudly for my preference.

"Shhh…" I once more admonish, but when I realize what my friend just said, I suddenly laugh. I look at him with a mixture of awe and surprise. I am mindful to follow my own advice, though, so I whisper my question, "What…did you just say?"

"I said…"

"Yes, I know _what_ you said, but 'batty' as a fruitcake?" I gaze at my partner in 'slime' and shake my head. Gregory has a knack for twisting around well-known phrases, usually just to get under my skin. This time, though, I think he's serious.

Suddenly, a puff of air sweeps through the tunnel and stirs up a fragrance that almost makes me gag. Stained from the knees down in a mixture of water, sludge, and whatever else kind of gunk one might find down here, Gregory smells rather funky - and not in a good way. I feel like spraying him with a bottle of my good perfume, had I thought to bring it.

Anyway, after trudging through the sewer system for the past hour, I thought I had adjusted to the smell, but the disturbed air refreshed the Sewer de Perfume on my friend and to nauseating effect. I was sure I didn't smell any better, since I am as muddied up as he is.

Nevertheless, I can't help but wrinkle my nose at the 'aroma' coming off my friend. I finally utter the most profound statement I've said so far since we've started this journey.

"You stink."

Gregs rolls his eyes and with his flashlight affording enough illumination, gives me one of his "Duh" expressions, "You THINK?"

I chuckle as I correct him, "Anyway, it's NUTTY as a FRUITcake and, no, she wasn't." I go back to reading my map.

"WHATever."

I could swear Gregs is rolling his eyes again, too, although I don't look this time.

Anyway, while I study my map and try to decide which way to go, Gregory continues to complain, again blatantly ignoring my warnings to be quiet.

"In MY book, she was batty cuz anyone who dreams up walking talking turtles HAS to be nuts. I can see a gorilla, a rabbit or – hey – how 'bout a panda. But turtles? They're the least likely to go all two-legged because of some mysterious green goo…and what's with THAT anyway? How can radioactive goop…"

And I think to myself, "_Yada yada yada, whatever, Gregory,_", until a noise behind us grabs my attention. It's coming from where it's the darkest. As it did with my mental retort, it shuts Gregory up, too.

Thank goodness, cuz I'm tired of listening to him. He's distracting me from my reading.

In response to the noise – and much to my dismay, my friend swings his flashlight around and does a quick scan of the dark, which pretty much leaves _me_ in the dark. I have a flashlight, but mine is the five and dime variety, a small little thing, perfect for purses – or reading maps, which is what I'm presently doing. Or was, anyway. I'm now using it to keep our end of the tunnel lit up, which is like lighting a match in the Carlsbad Caverns with its lights turned off. In other words, it's not working very well.

In contrast, my friend's flashlight is one of these high-intensity versions, specifically suited for a lightless environment, such as caves - or the sewers of New York City. In fact, if I'm not mistaken, I think we're directly under Seventh and Bleecker…or…maybe it's Bleecker and Grove Street, or... Well, I really don't know exactly where we are right now, but I DO know we're under the streets of New York City and believe me, that's imposing enough. Although I am as nervous as Greg is, I'm certainly not going to own up to it, either. After all, I've worked very hard at convincing him to come with me, so I don't dare lose courage.

Instead, I admonish him, "Would you PLEASE be quiet and keep that flashlight on the task at hand?"

"THAT'S what I'm doing," he whispers, which catches my attention, only because he's finally doing as I've asked all along. He then quickly adds, "Maybe that OTHER rumor's true, too." My friend's flashlight keeps searching for whatever his imagination just conjured up. He illuminates the tunnel floor, first, then swings the light from wall to wall, leaving a trail of black as dark as Indian ink. He rakes the light across the ceiling, next, before sweeping it down the walls again.

As I watch him, I thought that if his flashlight shot a rainbow of color, he would have been putting on a rather neat light show right now.

Suddenly, he focuses the beam at some point along the wall where it meets the floor. He shines it pointedly on something protruding from the side of the tunnel. However, because there are so many shadows falling over it due to the uneven and broken-down condition of the sewer walls, we can't tell what it is at first.

Suddenly, one small shadow moves. It scurries away from the light and into the end of the protrusion. A long skinny 'tail' follows its trajectory as it disappears with the 'shadow'. That's when Gregory – and I - realize it's just another drain-out and not a monster. Better than that – or worse, depending upon if you are Gregory or me - it was a rat making the noise.

In response to this epiphany, my friend sighs in relief, "First time I'm glad it's a rat! Thought it was a gator!"

I had to laugh, "Get real, Gregs, gators in the sewers is just an urban myth," and I manage to say that without giving away how mindful I am about his concerns. I don't dare tell him there actually was an alligator that lived down here at one time. It was a big one, in fact, at least according Grandma. One could not classify him as the garden-variety type, either. As I consider this thought and how long gators can live, I'm really, really hoping that he's gone to that eternal swamp in the sky by now, too. Yep, don't need to run into him. I don't care how sentient Grams wrote about that overgrown lizard; he wouldn't fulfill my quest one iota.

"Well, if one myth is real...," Greg replies testily and he turns around to glare at me. With his flashlight held under his chin, which gives his face a ghostly glow, he lowers his voice and tries to sound spooky, "...whoooo's to say the other isn't, knoooow what I mean?"

I ignore Greg's attempt to frighten me, so I reply evenly, undeterred, "Just keep your flashlight on our end of the sewer, so I can use mine to read the MAP!" I give him one pointed look, "The quicker we do this, the sooner we can go home, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

Reluctantly, Gregs finally does as told and he trains his light on our location once more.

Besides needing mine for my map, we need Greg's light to not only see our way through these tunnels, but to keep the rats away, among other things, things such as bugs. Like Greg's fear of rats, I try not to dwell on the cockroaches that infest these tunnels. I hate those things. Worse than rats, in my opinion. New York seems to have a lot of them, too, at least from what we've found so far. At this point, I'd be thrilled to prove Grandma right about her stories so I can skedaddle out of here and back to my apartment. I just know I'm going to have nightmares every night, too.

Of course, if Grandma's friends _are_ real, I don't know how I'll react, or – worse – how they'll react. That is, if any of them are still alive. I can just imagine how they might try to keep us down here, to keep us from telling anyone. Then I know for sure that Gregs will freak out!

Anyway, with Gregory once again doing his job of keeping our location lit, I go back to mine; that is, studying the map. Although I don't have to fight a shroud of black, anymore, or worry about things crawling over my boots, I nevertheless tramp my feet nervously, just to be safe.

Gregs does the same thing, but for a different reason. The rats have made him very nervous.

Personally, I don't blame him for being so uptight. I totally relate. I'm not all that crazy about taking a walk in the sewers, either. Besides dealing with the roaches (and the rats), you can 'catch' things down here. I'm sure the bacteria level is off the charts. I'm definitely going to take a lot of showers this week, once I get back home. I may even pour an entire gallon of bleach over me, just to make sure I kill all of these nasty germs.

I sigh and then realize that I'm feeling a growing claustrophobia. I'm usually not so sensitive to such matters, but I have had prior experience. I understand the tightness in my chest and the feeling of panic in the back of my mind too well. It wouldn't have been so bad had all of the tunnels been as big as the one we're currently in right now. However, that hasn't been the case. Not all of the tunnels have been big enough in which to stand upright. Sometimes we've had to stoop over until we could find a junction that allowed for our full height. We sometimes had to walk quite a ways like that, yet I had to trust Grandma's map – much to Gregory's complaints. She always came through, too. We always found the next junction she described in her journal and I didn't miss the opportunity to tell Gregs, "I told you so!"

However, when it came to the one drain out too short to even bend over - where we would have had to crawl on all fours, Gregory and I were in full agreement. Despite Gram's insistence, through her journal, that this was the only way to the next section, we refused. I had a printout map of the sewers, after all, one downloaded from the city's website. It showed all of the lines within the boundary that Grandma hand-drew when she wrote her journal. Of course, she didn't cross-reference them with the city's version, but I was still sure we could find the other side if we took an alternate route.

Unfortunately, because of my decision, this is why we're taken a break right now. I need to study Grandma's map a little more.

More to the point, I think we're lost.

For the past ten minutes, I've been mentally backtracking to where we decided NOT to crawl on all fours. I am certain we should have found the next tunnel, the one the height-challenged outlet would have led to, but that hasn't been the case. I'm starting to realize – and with sinking heart – that there must be a tunnel in-between the one where we found the too-short passage, and the one that we're in right now. It's probably one of many that the refurbishing project from thirty years ago blocked off, when the city replaced the more antiquated lines with new and improved versions.

I'm also starting to think that maybe Gregs and I need to go back to that other line.

I'm sure he'll be just thrilled about doing that, too.

According to Gram's map, the line in question supposedly snakes along for a good twenty yards. It then turns due east, and runs another ten before dumping out into the 'homes-stretch' tunnel (as I've come to call it). If this mysterious tunnel does indeed have lights – the way Grandma described, the many turns of the craw-through connector would keep that light from seeping into the opposite end. Light does not bend. We would not be able to see it – and we didn't, which is why I thought for sure we could take an alternate route.

In contrast, the tunnel that we're in right now, the one I thought would be the one Grandma wrote about, is as black as tar. I thought by heading due east at the first available junction and then heading north, they would intersect. I was wrong.

Yep, we're lost.

It all makes sense, now, but I seriously doubt that I could get Gregs to double-back and make him crawl through that tiny tunnel. He would probably just drag me back to our starting point, instead, and eventually to my apartment. Gregory is rather strong; he could probably pick me up and carry me, despite my protesting.

As the minutes tick by and as I'm getting very little from Grams' instructions to help with my dilemma, I'm becoming a bit concerned. I'm quickly discovering that I don't like total darkness. I don't doubt that, if push comes to shove, we can find our way to that first manhole cover, where we entered the sewers, but I really don't want to give up, not yet.

Nevertheless, I've never been anywhere before where there has been such an absolute absence of light. Between that and knowing we are twenty feet underground, it's becoming overwhelming! It doesn't help that we've lost our way.

In fact, it's starting to make me feel a bit anxious.

The more I think about this, the way that I'm feeling, that anxiety is starting to grow exponentially. I can feel my own heart begin to beat more enthusiastically against my chest.

Great, just great. All I need right now is a panic attack! Super.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Burning Bridges**_

_by reinbeauchaser_

_**Disclaimer: **__For those readers living in the USA, I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving. I had a great one; both of my kids were able to join us, not only for our early celebration (on Wednesday), but also for our friends' dinner on Turkey-Day! With my son in the military, he is at the mercy of their scheduling. My daughter is a teacher, so she had the entire week off! Yay. :0)_

_Anyway, I'm so sorry that it took longer to get this one up. I realized that I was spending WAY too much time on my OC's background, so I had to decide how best to condense it. I don't want to bore my readers. I still have to introduce the motivation behind my OC's quest, but I think I can segue it into a different format and still get my point across._

_Anyway, it goes without saying that I do not own the TMNT's or any character created by Eastman and Laird. I am only borrowing them to give my creativity some exercise. Hope you enjoy it. :0)_

**Chapter 2 – Light and Shadow**

I'm bending down, eyes closed, trying to get my head lower than my knees. To calm my frayed nerves, I'm sucking in deep breathes of air, but the air is pungent, so it almost makes me gag. As I'm trying to regain my composure (AND not throw up at the same time), Gregs keeps me steady. He has his flashlight in one hand, keeping our little area lit up, while his other hand rests on my back, so I won't fall over. Considering where we are right now, there are plenty of reasons not to do that, all of them good.

Anyway, after a few minutes of doing this, I'm starting to feel normal again, but just barely.

"You okay?" he asks and I can tell by the tone of his voice that he's rather amused by my situation. It's a definite improvement from his constant stream of complaints, but I'm not thrilled that it took my _panic_ attack to induce the change. Sometimes life is just soooo unfair.

"Yeah, m'fine," I mumble. I take in a few more breaths and let them out slow. When I feel the attack begin to ease up a bit more, I straighten up and square my shoulders. I keep my eyes closed, though, as I try to focus on a mental image that gives me strength – which, in this case, is my grandmother. It's what my therapist told me to do.

Yep, I have a therapist. It all started when I moved from Philadelphia to New York City. The change in 'neighborhood' wasn't something that I was used to. It's one thing visiting the Big Apple on occasion, but quite another living here. With all of the noise, the throng of people, and the endless parade of traffic – not to mention the never-ending cycle of crime, it became overwhelming in a hurry. In fact, Gregs was the one who suggested a therapist.

I've been seeing Doctor Reynolds, now, for over a year, and I've never regretted going to her. She's been such an understanding person. I share everything with her...well, most things, anyway. My Grandma's stories are the lone exception.

Even as a therapist, I don't think Doctor Reynolds would understand, no more so than my caretaker did so many years ago when my mom had to go back to work after my dad left us. When Maria caught me sharing my grandma's tales of ninja turtles with the other children, she totally freaked out. I can still hear her disapproving voice as she scolded me about my 'imaginary friends', and then, when my mom came for me at the end of the day, warning her to never let my grandmother watch me again.

"She's filling your daughter's head with violent imagery and ridiculous creatures."

Ah, yes, Marie Ramirez was one serious dudette. All work and no play. I was very glad when I reached the age where I could attend school all day with my older brother, David. She was a no-nonsense woman who brooked no argument about fanciful creatures and imagination. She just didn't put up with it.

After taking in two more breaths, I finally open my eyes. My heart seems to be beating regularly now, rather than racing along like an out of control freight train. It's an improvement for sure.

Gregory smiles at me, though, his cocky grin widening, "You ready to go home, now?"

"NO!" I reply in earnest, "Just got a little..._claustrophobic_, is all. I'll be fine...in a moment...just - let me catch my breath."

"You're a wuss, you know that."

"No bigger wuss than you and your fear of RATS!" I declare, feeling offended.

"Hey, enough rats can act like a swarm of piranha, if hungry enough! I am perfectly justified." He looks around, again, half expecting his worst fear to materialize from the shroud of black edging our little circle of light.

"Yeah," I say in response, "but, we have an advantage; we have flashlights. So," I good-naturedly poke him in the ribs, "you keep yours turned on and you won't have to worry about those vicious, man-eating, rodents!"

He huffs, obviously disappointed that my attack didn't dissuade me from my goal.

Although I'm not too surprised by my reaction with the sewers (_I think I've done pretty well so far_), my friend's behavior over the past hour has surprised me. Since Gregs is used to this kind of lightless environment, I thought he would do better. Once a month, he gets together with other spelunkers. They've explored caves from the Appalachian Mountains to Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico. Consequently, with the assortment of low-light creatures that often reside in caves - such as bats (_which apparently do not bother Gregory_) I originally believed that rats wouldn't be much different.

I guess I was wrong. Rats have been the biggest issue with him. More so than even the germs. According to Gregory, rats are a whole n'other animal. It has something to do with his watching the DVD movie, Ben, when he was five.

"Gave me nightmares for years," he explained after our first encounter, which consisted of just two rats. He screamed like a little girl, too. Seriously, I couldn't stop laughing for a full minute. First time I've ever heard him scream and I have to admit, it totally conflicted with his nearly six foot, muscular frame. Who would'a thought he could sound like that – or have such a vocal range. "You could do Barbara Streisand, you know that?" I teased him after I had regained my composure.

Gregory didn't think that was one bit funny.

Ever since then, though, Gregs has been doing nothing but complain. He would have turned back, too, but by the time we found our first pair of rodents, we were well into our little trip. I refused to give up, though, despite Gregory freaking out. When he threatened to leave me and go back to our starting point on his own, I used his fear against him.

"Those two rats are probably just the forefront of many," I cautioned, trying hard not to smile, "But...if you think you can go it alone, feel free."

He chose to stick with me. "Safety in numbers!" he declared.

Yeah, as if two humans could discourage a gazillion rats if they had half a mind to attack! Of course, I kept _that_ thought to myself; why give Gregory any more excuses to hightail it back to our starting point. I really didn't want him to make a run for it, anyway, and leave me behind by myself. I'd only end up following him and there would go my quest to prove my grandma's stories. No way was I going to scour the bowels of New York City on my own. I'd probably end up lost forever. This place is like an endless maze of networking tunnels, outlets, and crawl-throughs. Every turn looks the same as the last one. It was getting rather confusing as to where we were, in fact.

Anyway, with Gregory's increasing reluctance to see this adventure to its end, I regretted in not bringing along a cattle prod. Then again, it wasn't my plan to hold his hand throughout our little adventure, either. Right now, he seems distracted by my predicament, but once I'm fine, I know he'll be right back to his ol' complaining self.

_Hmmm...maybe if I have an occasional attack, it might keep him focused on our task, rather than on the local inhabitants._ It sounds like a good idea to me, but after seeing a real one, I don't think Gregory will fall for the phony version.

Anyway, I really can't blame him for being nervous. I know I am. Had we not stopped while I tried to figure out where we went wrong, I wouldn't have had my attack in the first place. Before, I had focus, a destination, and a goal pushed along by determination. Now, as I'm realizing where we are – or where we aren't, to be more precise – I'm slowly beginning to realize that I think we're lost. I dismiss that thought, however. I don't need a repeat of my panic attack, because I know that Gregory will push harder for me to give up, and I really don't want to because I know that we're close to our target, I can feel it. We've come too far. I might be lost, I may not like germs, cockroaches, or the dark, but I am quite determined to see this quest to its conclusion. That is, so long as Gregs keeps our end of the tunnel lit up.

At least the rodents and bugs will keep their distance and I can use _my_ flashlight for reading Grandma's directions.

"So," Gregs says suddenly, breaking into my thoughts, "have you figured out where we are yet?"

"Yep," I say simply and try to ignore how loud we sound right now. Absolute silence makes even a whisper sound deafening. I ignore it, though, and continue with reading my map.

After a long, pregnant pause and not getting much else from me, Gregory snorts, "Okay, so...where ARE we?"

"We're in the sewers."

"Ah yes, Miss Obvious strikes again. WHERE in the sewers?" Gregory snaps.

"In New York City, doofus. Now, please stop talking so I can get my bearings. I think we took a wrong turn back there." I sigh and shake my head as I realize we weren't going to find the right tunnel, not unless we go back and follow Gram's instructions to the letter.

"Back...where?" Gregory asks and with much trepidation.

I carefully measure my next set of words, knowing well how Gregs will react, "Remember that tunnel, you know...the one where it required...crawling on all fours..."

"NO WAY! I am NOT going to crawl, April! You can just forget about that." Gregs steps away from me, as if I have some horrible disease and he's afraid of catching it, "If you try to make me crawl through that filthy tunnel, you can just kiss my behind goodbye and do this on your OWN!"

I give Gregs a long pointed look, saying calmly, "You mean, you'll walk all the way back to where we started, all by yourself?"

"Yep!" he says without hesitation, "Better than going through that tunnel!"

"Well, fine, go ahead." I smile. Gregs looks as if he's proved his point and he seems ready to turn heel and do exactly as he threatened, but my next comment sobers him up really fast. "Yet, I wonder how you'll do that, since I have the only map." I step back, just to add more space between him and me, just in case he has the mind to snatch it out of my hands. I clutch my set of papers close to my chest.

Another long pregnant pause follows. Gregory glares at me from behind his flashlight. I can tell that he's none to happy right now. He knows I have him. He's mine. He's either going to have to stick with me until I either find what I'm looking for, or something scares me so witless that it won't take any mention of going home. I'll be running like a crazy lady back to that sewer opening in the alley behind Lou's Pizza Palace.

"I have GPS AND access to the INTERNET," he finally declares, brandishing his cell phone from his pants pocket and holding it up for me to see.

"But, it can't lead you to the right manhole cover;" I reply smugly, "You still need my map. Not all of the tunnels my grandma drew show up on-line."

Gregory rolls his eyes and exhales deeply, grumbling under his breath, "Knew I should'a downloaded that map you emailed me." As he re-pockets his phone, he huffs, "FINE, so we go back to that tunnel, but I swear, April, if I catch anything, I'll make sure to puke all over your living room rug after we get back!"

"You can puke anywhere you like if we find what I'm looking for."

Suddenly, we hear a noise from the darkest part of the tunnel behind me. It almost sounds like a deep-throated chuckle, only it's far away, like the tail end of an echo.

Gregs and I both jump and turn towards the sound. He quickly trains his powerful flashlight on that end of the tunnel. Contrary to his steady beams prior to this moment, the light is shaky, revealing the fact that he's afraid.

As the light chases away the dark and exposes the aged brickwork-walls and ceiling, I notice two things at once.

First, the tunnel runs for fifty yards, before it bends to the right and disappears into more inky blackness, where Gregs' flashlight can't reach.

The second thing I saw was a blip of a shadow disappearing around the bend and into that impenetrable dark. I sucked in a breath.

_Could it be_, I wonder?

It was so dark at the point, though, an elephant could be hiding there and we wouldn't be able to see it. For a moment, I entertain that thought and wonder why an elephant would chuckle, but when i realize what it really could be, my heart starts to race like that locomotive, again.

My grandma often told me that they were one with the shadows, _"Sometimes that's all one could see, all they would allow, just to scare the crap out of anyone wanting to find them."_

I swallowed nervously.

"What was that?" Gregory whispered.

"I dunno," I offer softly, not wanting to scare my friend anymore than he already is. I'm not ashamed to say, I'm a little insecure right now, too. "Sounded like someone laughing?"

"A rat?" Greg offers nervously and a bit more hopeful than common sense should allow.

"Rats don't laugh, Gregs." Seriously, this guy has a problem. I think he needs to see Doctor Reynolds, too.

We hear the sound again, only it is even farther away than the first one. Now I'm certain it's a chuckle.

"Well, it certainly isn't a bug," Gregory offered meekly.

"Most definitely NOT a bug," I concurred nervously and I think to myself, _Not unless it's a mutant bug_.

That thought ALMOST convinces me to give up and race Gregory back to that manhole cover. However, the prospect of possibly finding the very thing for which I'm hunting keeps me rooted where Gregs and I are standing.

I'm a little excited – but only a little, because another thought occurs to me. They don't want to be discovered. They are very protective about their territory and will go to any lengths just to protect it. That's what my grandma told me. Consequently, it makes me wonder what they would do if someone crosses that proverbial line.

For the first time since we started my quest, I am absolutely and without question, paralyzed with fear!

**TBC**

_Oooo...I wonder who made the shadow? Dun dun dun! :o)_


	4. Scream Like a Girl

_**BURNING BRIDGES**_

_by reinbeauchaser_

_**Disclaimer: **__Some of you might be wondering why I'm taking so long with bringing the TMNT's into this adventure. I blame Dean Koontz. :0) I've read a lot of his books over the past couple of years and have found him to be an amazing writer who knows how to weave a tale. Because of that, he has become a mentor of sorts. I like how he takes his time developing his characters, their personalities, and their backgrounds. He writes with a lot of detail. It makes his characters seem more real, at least to me. I don't come near to being as capable as he, of course, but one can't succeed without trying first. :0) This thing called Fanfiction is all about trying, too. _

_Anyway, I'm as anxious as any of you to have Gregory and April (jr.) meet our Heroes in Green...in one fashion or another, so don't despair. :0) Maybe they'll even meet one in this chapter! :0)_

_Found out that I can name my reviewers, so here goes...a huge thank you to Mikell for her chapter 3 comments, which kept me going, and for Ramica, Bubblyshell22, __Genieva was a Diver__, WCGirl, and Deirdre (I still owe you a review for your latest on Fade), for your remarks on the previous chapters. Although I write to take advantage of my muse's prodding, your kind words have sustained me! :0)_

_As always, I don't own the TMNT's. I'm just having a little fun with them. _

**Chapter 3 – Scream Like a Girl**

I can't tell for sure how long Gregs and I stand there, staring down the presently lit tunnel, wondering who had laughed. It is dark just passed where the tunnel turns, so whatever had made the shadow and the noise had also made itself one with the inky blackness that our flashlights can't reach.

When I finally realize that whoever it was wasn't coming back to kill us, I gather my courage and declare, "Let's go."

"Finally!"

As my friend whirls around to head back the other way, I grab his arm, "NO, not that way, THIS way," and I pull him in the direction from where I saw the shadow.

"Are you FREAKING kidding me?" Gregs plants his feet and refuses to budge, invoking his strength against my pull. He almost wins, but I hold on tenaciously. He ignores my earlier requests to be quiet and loudly declares, "Whoever made that sound, no way am I going after it. It could be some deranged homeless guy, a psychopath who probably prefers to be left alone, and YOU want to follow him?" He looks at me with eyes wide and I can see the fear.

"If he was deranged and had murder on his mind," I counter softly, "he wouldn't have run away. He would have attacked us."

"Your POINT? He might be hoping that we'll follow him. Maybe he's hiding, waiting for us to catch up with him, just so he can jump out and kill us."

"But why would he do that if he's – as you say – anti social?" I shake my head, "No, if he didn't want us to follow him, he wouldn't have made his presence known, and I don't believe it's a psychopath, either, but he could be a recluse and if he is, then we'll leave him alone." I inhale deeply from my long-winded sentence.

Gregs looks at me with an expression closely resembling desperation, "So, let's just _jump_ to the end of this little adventure and leave him alone."

"No."

"Why not?" Greg whines.

"Because...I think that laugh came from what we're looking for."

If I previously had any notion that Gregs couldn't get any more frightened, I would be mistaken. As what I just said registered with him and as his eyebrows slowly grew closer to his hairline, I'm finally realizing that even if we did find my grandma's friends, Gregory might not make the best of company. Considering what Grams told me about her friend's little clan, one member of that family would most certainly put Gregory in a coma. However, I don't think Splinter would still be alive; it's been far too many years and he was already old when my grandma last saw him, which was decades ago.

Thinking about that made me sad, because what I remember from what she said about him, he was a very wise creature. It would have been good to talk with him, maybe even therapeutic, at least for me.

Gregory, on the other hand, would probably have a heartattack. Maybe I should prepare him? Then again, I think I'll wait until it's absolutely necessary. Right now, I need his company. If I tell him too soon, he just might book it out of here. Yeah, that's a good idea, I think I'll wait. I don't mind being just a little self-serving, especially right now.

Anyway, I press on, my hand still grasping my friend's arm, "Look, Gregs, they're not going to kill us, okay? From the way Grams wrote about them, once they know who I am – or whom I'm related to, they'll probably want to visit, catch up on things regarding my grandma's life after...they – ah - stopped seeing one another." I smile, "They're probably curious about us."

Switching from his Brooklyn brogue to a bad rendition of a British accent, Gregory said derisively, throwing his free hand up in exasperation, "Oh, I'm sure they'll just usher us into their parlor, fix us a spot of tea, and offer up some crumpets." He then went back to his normal way of speaking, "Seriously, April, anyone living down here has to have a screw loose or two. It's the most depressing place I've ever explored."

"Only because of the rats."

Gregory hissed, "EsPECIALLY because of the RATS!"

I could feel Gregory's resistance increase through my grip as he leaned just a little more away from me, so I tried a different tactic.

"Look, Gregory, ever since my Grandma's funeral, when I saw that shadow among the trees, the one that didn't fit with all of the others – you remember, I told you about it," He gave a subtle nod, "Well, ever since then and most certainly after discovering that hidden camera in her apartment, I knew what I had to do. With finding the map and directions in her journal and the last thing that she wrote, I've had my mind made up to find them. My grandma all but encouraged me, for crying out loud."

"But, she didn't _order_ you specifically."

"Yes, she did, in her own way. She wrote that she hoped somehow, some way, they would know how she felt about the decision she made. How is that going to happen unless someone makes the effort to get the message to them?"

"You could have left a note. You know...after you found that camera in her apartment. You could have taped it somehow, where they could read it."

"I thought you didn't believe in her stories."

"I...was just saying that you could have left a note; would have saved us a trip."

"Maybe, but then how would I know where to put the journal so they could get to it?"

"You could have left it in the apartment. It's obvious that they've been there already, what with installing that spy cam and all..."

"No, that wouldn't work because Grandma's apartment building could have sold before they got the journal. And, as you know, it did sell fast; David priced it low for that very reason. Anyway, I wouldn't want it to fall into the wrong hands."

"You could have just left it where we first entered the sewers."

"And what if that camera wasn't working on their end, what then? They wouldn't get the message. Then that journal would end up ruined." I shake my head, "You can go back if you want to, Gregory, but I'm going after that shadow."

A long pregnant pause follows as Gregory stares at me, apparently confused. Finally and with worry tones shaping his words, Gregory asks, "WHAT shadow?"

"You didn't see the shadow?"

I found that kind of surprising since we both turned around at the same time. Maybe Gregory wasn't looking in the right direction.

"I only heard the laugh," Gregory says and as he leans even more away from me, his eyes bigger than they've been so far, I know I am slowly losing the battle. My grip on his arm tightens. He then asks meekly, almost childlike, "but, YOU...saw someone?"

"Not really, just a shadow. It didn't stick around long enough for me to tell what it was, but," and I point towards the end of sewer tunnel, where it was the blackest, "...it went that way and I want to go after it."

Gregory's eyes widened further, "Are you kidding? You're NUTS, certifiably NUTS," and he tries to pull away from me even more.

I finally realize that my friend is not going to cooperate, yet I am not going back, either. I can see that proverbial light at the end of the tunnel – no pun intended – and I know that I'm closer than ever to reaching my goal. I make a decision and take the biggest gamble I've made so far.

"Here," I finally say and hand Gregory my grandma's map, "take this and find your way back."

"What?" Gregory asks, now confused, as he takes the offered papers.

"You heard me, I'm not giving up. If you want to go back, then go." I give him my most determined expression.

Gregory seems to go all serious, now, as he mumbles, "You'll end up lost without this map." He actually sounds concerned for me, instead of for himself. I find that refreshing.

"I don't think so," I reply confidently, "At least, I don't believe they will let me get lost."

Gregory looks at the map and I can see the indecision on his face. He's a great friend and I like him, but I've discovered that he's not very brave. I'm not either, but once I've made up my mind, it's usually a done deal.

I prepare myself for going it alone, expecting Gregs to turn around and head back to where we began our adventure. In that moment I understand why mother always said that I'm more like Grandma than she ever was. Not only do I have her red hair and fair, freckly skin, I can be as stubborn as a mule, too. Just wish I didn't have panic attacks. It kind of ruins the moment; know what I mean. Fortunately, I'm feeling more determined than anxious right now.

After a long pause, Gregs looks down at me and squares his shoulders, "Can't let you do that...so...guess you're still stuck with me." He gives back my grandma's map.

I take them and smile.

The fifteen minutes involves following a seamless and uninterrupted tunnel. I can tell that the sewers down here are old and it's been a while since the floors have had any moisture. To my friend's relief, there aren't as many rats, either, so he's not complaining as much.

Better than that, the air isn't as pungent, and it isn't as stale, either. I wonder how that can be when we're so far underground.

As we walk along, I notice that there aren't any cross-junctions, so it deepens the mystery about the air circulation.

The tunnel itself is just one continuous tube that snakes along without interruption; bending left, going straight, bending right, turning left, and then a gentle right, only to then run straight again for a while.

I can't imagine why it bends so much, but perhaps for those who originally built this part, they designed it to avoid large deposits of rock or some sort of natural subterranean river.

The river idea kind of worries me. After all, we are deep in the lower middle end of the Manhattan peninsula, with the Hudson on one side and the East River on the other. I'm not sure how high the water table might be down here, so who knows why the original excavators did what they did. All I know is that we seem to be heading down. It's not a sharp decline, but very subtle. If there were water running through it, it would be flowing along like a gentle stream. Nonetheless, the fact that our path is dry tells me that wherever the water table might be, it isn't high enough to seep into the sewers.

Still, the taste in the air smells fresh and I can't help but keep wondering about it.

When we make a hard left turn and walk about fifty yards, we find ourselves at a dead-end, with the only way out behind us. Now, I'm thoroughly confused. I did not see a doorway or another junction of sewer line over the past fifteen minutes. We should have seen whoever had made that shadow, too, since we would have crossed paths at least once.

We didn't, though, so it begs the question, where did this shadow go. Was it just my imagination back there? Could it have been the flashlight playing tricks on me? The brickwork is not as smooth-sided as concrete would be, so there are uneven spots throughout, which – with our flashlights - generate small, uneven shadows along the wall. Yet, I am sure that I saw something and it wasn't a brick.

Maybe I missed something, perhaps even a secret doorway.

"Did we miss a cross section, somewhere?" I ask, mostly to myself.

"We're LOST! I knew it, we're NEVER getting out of here!" and Gregory offers up one long depressing whiney sigh.

I roll my eyes, then turn to face him, "You know, with all of your experience with exploring caves, I thought you would do better."

"Caves are different," Gregs explains quickly, "The ones my buddies and me explore are well-traveled. We don't explore unexplored caves. Down here, I have no clue where I am or where that exit is...and if I DID, I'd be outta here!"

"Yeah, you keep saying that." I then laugh a little, "But, what you're really saying is, you're just a wannabe spelunker."

Gregory doesn't reply, he just pouts.

"Anyway, we're not lost," I insist and hold up my papers, "we can always backtrack using the map, but I think we missed something."

"Yeah, our common sense. I think I left mine back at your apartment and I sure do miss it."

I couldn't help but give a little laugh...and then...someone else chuckles, too. It's a male voice, with resonating baritone notes, filled with depth and amusement...and maybe just a hint of malice.

"Did - you – just - laugh?" Gregory nervously whispers.

"Do I sound like Robert Goulet when I do?" I gulp.

Another chuckle.

We have our flashlights shining up the wall blocking our path, so we know the laughter didn't come from there. As we both come quickly to the same conclusion, as one Gregs and I whip around and in the same direction, ready to spotlight whoever has made the noise.

Unfortunately, before we can do that, we find ourselves relieved of our only way to counter the suffering dark. Someone has taken our flashlights – just like that!

Then, before we can react or even turn around to see who it is, whoever took our flashlights

turns them off.

We suddenly find ourselves plunged into absolute darkness!

As expected, Gregory screams.

Seriously, he needs to work on that so he doesn't sound so much like a little girl. It's getting downright embarrassing.

**TBC**

_Robert Goulet didn't really die, he just moved to New York City and is now living in the sewers. Riiiiight. _


	5. That's Not a Backpack!

**BURNING BRIDGES**

_By reinbeauchaser_

_**xxx**_

_**DISCLAIMER**__: Don't own them, never have, never will. Tis sad. Anyway, hope this chapter thrills and satisfies. Enjoy!_

_**xxx**_

**Chapter 4 – That's Not a Backpack!**

Through the cloak of dark, I can hear Gregory hyperventilate, his breathing coming in ragged gasps. I reach out and grab his arm. In response, he jerks away and yelps a second time. My heart sinks as I hear him scramble away from me. I panic!

"Hey, Gregs, it's all right, it's just me..." I say quickly, forgetting for the moment the deep resonating laugh from a moment ago. Mainly, I don't want my friend to jump ship; I don't want to end up down here alone with Mr. Chuckles.

Before I can call out again, the running shuffle of athletic shoes comes to an abrupt stop. I can hear Gregory whine piteously, now. He doesn't have his flashlight, so he can't see where he's going. Of course, this means that we're both trapped down here, since I have no way of reading my grandma's map, now.

As Greg's breathing becomes more staccato, I can tell that he's scared half out of his mind. I am, too, but I keep talking to him, trying to reassure him – and myself, just so I don't have another panic attack - that everything will be okay. As I search for him, my hand gropes blindly and desperately for the familiar feel of his shirted arm, or the duffle bag of supplies on his back. He's brought along food and water, as well as a blanket to keep ourselves clean, just in case we want to rest during our hunt. I guess it's the boy scout in him, the 'always being prepared' part of his personality – our current situation notwithstanding, of course.

I soon make contact with what I think is his backpack. I quickly realize, though, that instead of canvas, what I feel under my fingertips is cool and rock-like. It's as hard as the brick walls surrounding us, too, but it doesn't feel quite right. There seems to be large, segmented bumps all over it. The bumps aren't smooth, but rough and uneven, much like the bricks yet different. The instant I realize this, however, it moves under my touch, as if shifting away from me. It's ever so slight, but by its movement and how it feels, it's enough to tell me that – A – it's not the wall and – B – it's not Gregory's duffle bag, either.

This time _I_ scream, taking a few quick steps back. At the same time, I hear Gregory scream, too. Now I begin hyperventilating. When I hear a hard thud, my heart starts to race like a runaway train again.

After a moment of gasping and coming close to having another panic attack, through the soundless environment of the sewer I realize that Gregs has gone quiet. He isn't whining anymore. I whisper meekly, "Gregs, you still here." Nothing. I ask again, but louder this time, "Where are you?"

I feel something brush against my shoulder and I jump, again, but then ask frantically, "Is that you? Please say it's you."

"It's me."

That's not Gregory's voice. Its tone is waaaaay too bassey.

Instinctively I jump back a third time and immediately regret it. My head slams against the sewer wall and I utter a painful "OW!" I wish I had brought along my own duffle bag, it would have at least buffered me a bit.

In response, the 'not Gregory' voice admonishes me, "Hey, you shouldn't be jumping around like that when you can't see where you're going. You okay?"

Internally I'm freaking out, but I ignore the concern, because my primary focus right now is finding my friend. I'm afraid that Gregs is doing as he has threatened all along; he's running back to our starting point. How, I don't know. It's pitch black down here. He won't be able to see where he was going. He'll have to act like a blind man and feel his way along the walls. That will be slow progress for sure. Still, I didn't hear him leave and I should at least hear the gradually diminishing sound of his athletic shoes slapping against concrete.

I hope he's still here, so I call out, "Gregory Michael Phillips, where are you? Say something, PLEASE. If you left me here, so help me I'll..."

However, the not-Gregory voice interrupts my growing rant, "Um...well...Gregory Michael Phillips is still here but kind of busy right now." He laughs a little and then I know the voice belongs to Mr. Chuckles. I'm kind of glad because if there is someone else down here besides him, I will have a panic attack for sure.

I pause and swallow deeply. All kinds of scenarios race through my rattled brain, none of them good. I recall the thud from a moment ago and realize that it sounded very much as if someone had just collapsed.

With much trepidation and my voice quavering, I ask, "Busy? Busy doing what?"

"Dreaming, I hope."

"Dreaming?" and then I get kind of mad, "Hey, whoever you are, you didn't hurt my friend, did you?"

I'm ready to defend Gregs, although I really hope I don't have to. I don't have anything to use as a weapon.

"Me?" the voice sounds rather surprised, "Naw, he did it all on his own; passed out when he heard you scream." He chuckles a little (and _justifies my nickname for him_), "He sure scares easily, though. He's fine; I've propped him up against the wall. Should come around pretty soon."

I roll my eyes and mumble, "Great; just great. Some protector he is."

Mr. Chuckles laughs, "Seriously? You brought him along to protect you?" He sounds rather amused.

Before I can say anything in defense of my friend, Chuckles continues, "You'd have better protection from a Chihuahua. This guy's been on edge ever since you first encountered rats."

"Hey, rats scare him, okay? Besides, it's not as if...wait, what did you just say?" Has this person been monitoring Gregs' and my progress down here? That thought makes my skin crawl.

He sighs, as if answering a foolish child, "Yes, I've been following you."

"Who...who are you?" I try to ignore the fact that this person has not only followed us, but has probably overheard everything Gregs and I have discussed along the way. I have to admit, it gives me a very creepy feeling.

"Who do you think?"

Well, that creepy feeling? It just got worse. I can hear the sarcasm quite clearly in his tone, so I reply in kind, "It's pitch black down here, silly. How do you expect me..."

"Surely, you're not _that_ stupid."

"How dare you!" The nerve of this person. Seriously.

"No...how dare YOU," he challenges, instead.

That gives me pause. "What...do you mean?"

"You're trespassing...and you're doing it deliberately."

Trespassing? What is he talking about? He doesn't own these tunnels, the city does. Yet, who would deem these sewers theirs? Answer: anyone who lives down here, that's who, and my heart pounds harder. Still, I can't help but challenge him, "These tunnels...you think they belong to you?"

"In a word, yes."

"Wrong. In a word, they belong to the city," I counter smugly, "and my taxes make me part owner, so I have a right to be here." Yeah, it's a gamble that he'll accept my excuse, but I have to try something to convince him of my right to be here.

"And abandoned BY the city when they reconfigured and refurbished the sewers thirty years ago. Your taxes pay only for its use and nothing more. You have NO right to be here." And I wonder if he can read minds, too, but he continues and I shelve that thought for later contemplation, "If you had not diverted from your map, you never would have come close to finding this section and, in that way, trespass my territory."

I don't say anything, but hold my maps close to my chest. I'm afraid this person – whoever he is – will want to take them from me. How would I find my way back home, then? For that matter, I'm wondering if I will ever see home again. Will David try to look for me? Will he call the cops? Will he even think to search the sewers? I should have left a note or let him know where I was going, I really should have, but I was afraid David would try to talk me out of it. He's really good at that, too; guess it's the lawyer in him.

Anyway, once more Mr. Chuckles distracts me from my thoughts, "Why are you down here?"

I cut to the chase. "Which one are you?" I have a good idea what this person IS, just not exactly WHO he is, so answering his question seems like a moot point to me. Of course, I find myself torn between terror and joy at the possibility of finding one of my grandma's friends, too.

"Who I am is unimportant. I want to know why YOU are HERE."

"Well, _smarty_," and I realize I need to bite my tongue more often, because I hear a distinct growl of discontent from Mr. Chuckles. He's not pleased with my insult. "...if you've been following us, then you've overheard Gregs and me, so why do YOU think we are here."

"I don't think 'we' is the operative word. The correct word is 'you'. Your protector friend only came along to keep you company." He sniggers then, "And I don't think he believes your grandma's stories, either." He laughs a little more.

"You think that's funny?" and I realize that he hasn't answered my question.

"Yes...well...that you thought HE would be of any use."

A long pause creeps into our little debate. Although this person is grating on my nerves – and I have to admit that the absolute dark isn't helping, either, I don't know what else to say. He is correct, though. Other than keeping me company, Gregs hasn't been much help. I could have just borrowed his big, powerful flashlight and go it alone down here. Then, again, I would be all alone with Mr. Chuckles.

Suddenly, I feel as if I'm one of those stupid girls in a cheaply made thriller, one who does really stupid things that anyone with an ounce of common sense would avoid doing. Makes me wonder about my own common sense, that's for sure.

Anyway, I have so many thoughts going through my head right now, about what this all means and which of my grandma's friends is Mr. Chuckles, that I'm lost for words.

Suddenly, I hear Gregory breathing rather noisily, as if his head has lolled forward and is now crimping his windpipe. It doesn't take long before his breathing sounds more labored.

Once more, I panic, "Hey, he's not breathing very well," and I step towards the sound.

With my left hand slightly in front of me to guide my way, my right grips my precious papers. However, I don't take more than two steps when I bump into something vertical, like a tree trunk. The 'something vertical' refuses to budge and as my hand explores it, I feel horizontal segmented sections of hard leathery plastic under my hand. When I try to go around, it moves with me and continues to block my way. It's acting just like a wall. I realize then that Mr. Chuckles is blocking my path. Instead of backing down, I push...hard.

"Get outta the way, my friend needs me!" I demand.

Then, something like a tree branch or a rod suddenly braces up against my chest, right at my sternum below my neck. At the same time, it pushes me back two steps, yet with such ease that I don't lose my balance. I am impressed by the strength, though. I then I hear Mr. Chuckles say reassuringly and with some kindness, "Your friend is fine, he's breathing alright, he's just coming around, is all."

Mr. Chuckles sounds much closer to me now, as if he's right in front of me. In fact, I can smell his breath. It smells somewhat minty, as if he's recently rinsed his mouth out with mouthwash. I try not to find amusement with that. After all, things are getting rather serious right now and I can't afford to laugh. I bite my tongue as I take a step back.

As if to confirm things, I hear Gregory's voice. It's woozy sounding, as if he's just waking up. He sounds as if he's sitting on the ground. "Wh...wh...where am I? How come iz so dark?"

"Gregory, it's all right. You passed out." I then address Mr. Chuckles, "Please, let me go to him. He needs to know that everything is all right."

"Is it?"

"Is what?" I ask, both confused and impatient.

"Is everything all right?"

"Well, yeah, I think so. Why wouldn't it be?"

"You're trespassing, remember? I don't take kindly to trespassers."

I laugh, although inwardly I'm scared witless, "What? Are you telling me you'll kill us or something?"

"Or...something," he says flatly. There is an edge to his voice, too.

That gives me pause, but I know Grandma's stories too well. "Look, if you are who I think you are, I know you have too much honor to do that!"

I'm really counting on it, too.

"Honor? What do you know of honor or of ME?" and his voice lowers, the tone edged with dangerous inflections.

Now I'm really afraid, but I refuse to let Mr. Chuckles intimidate me, "Honor, as in – not killing the innocent."

Chuckles says evenly, "But you're guilty as charged. You're trespassing."

"No signs to say I was," I countered quickly.

"By not following that map to the letter," and I hear my papers rustle, as if a finger has just flicked their edges (_and it makes me wonder how Mr. Chuckles can see when it's so dark down here_), "you failed to follow the signs given. Had you done as your directions said, you would not have trespassed."

I gulp, quite uncomfortable with this person's accusation and implied threat. I'm now second-guessing myself about being down here.

However, I square my shoulders and try to ignore the obvious – which is, how he knows what the instructions say. I push that thought aside, as I declare, "I followed everything to the letter."

"No, you didn't." His voice is soft, now.

"Did, too!"

"Did NOT."

"Did TOO!"

Instead of continuing our mini argument, I hear Mr. Chuckles sigh deeply and then...it hits me. The crawl-through that required dropping to hand and knee. Gregs refused to do it and I will freely admit that I agreed with him at the time. That decision resulted in having to find another way to the tunnel my grandma wrote about in her journal.

"Well, I followed ALMOST all the directions..."

"Indeed!"

"Okay, so...I improvised at one point. You can't expect a girl like me to crawl on hands and knees through this...this place. There're germs and bugs and other stuff. So, the honorable thing for you to do would be to forgive me...right?" I try to say it as lightheartedly and as confidently as I can.

Mr. Chuckles doesn't say anything. The silence says all.

I repeat my plea, this time with less confidence, "You can forgive me, right?"

My interrogator remains silent, though. It's then when I realize that he won't be persuaded.

I finally realize that fifty years can make a difference in the definition of honor. I'm now wishing that I had done as Gregs said. I should have left a note in Grams' apartment in plain sight of that camera. I should have written where her friends could find the journal and then drop said journal in the sewers (_after making a copy, of course_). Who am I kidding that I can find them, just like that. They're NINJA, for crying out loud. Why should I expect a warm welcome from them at all?

What's worse, they're mutants who are probably very proactive in keeping themselves hidden and undiscovered. They would probably take extreme measures to ensure that, too, because aren't ninja killers? Don't they hold to blood feuds? Don't they strike hard and fade way?

In other words, ask questions later?

Sometimes I wish my epiphanies would happen when it's more convenient...like before I start things. Yeah, that would be nice.

**TBC**

**A/N:** _Of course, this all begs the question: Why did Mr. Chuckles show himself earlier? Why would he encourage the intrepid spelunkers to follow him by revealing himself (even if in shadowed form) and, in that way, tempt them to trespass. Yes, a good question and one I hope to answer in the next chapter. Wish me luck!_

_And I want to give a huge thank you to the following reviewers who were kind enough to leave a comment or two for chapter 3: Mikell, Candlelit1, and TigerChickTigriss. You guys rock! :0)_


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